


Return to Sender

by scrub456



Series: Reader Appreciation Prompt Extravaganza [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bad Puns, Canon Compliant, Epic Friendship, Episode: s02e04 Many Happy Returns, Friendship, Gen, Happy Birthday, John Watson's Birthday, John Watson's Blog, Many Happy Returns, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes's Birthday, Traditions, prompt request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As most traditions do, this one started out simply enough. </p><p>A fluffy bit of best friend birthday celebration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return to Sender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [constantly_cold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantly_cold/gifts).



> This story is for constantly_cold, because she and I both celebrated our birthday this past friday! Happy Birthday, dear! ♡
> 
>  
> 
> ***CANON NOTES***  
> I think it's mostly widely assumed that Sherlock's birthday (at least ACD canon) is 6 January. I've seen a lot of writers use a date in October as John’s birthday, based on the mini-episode Many Happy Returns (the title of this piece is a play on that title, by the way). But, in my research, a lot of people think that ACD Watson was born on or around 31 March, which is a significant date for BBC Sherlock and John, if the dates on John’s blog are to be believed. So, this story sticks to the timeline of things, based as closely to the timeline of events on John’s blog, using 6 January and 31 March as the respective birthdays of our boys.

**6 January, 2011**

As most traditions do, this one started out simply enough.

A few weeks shy of... well, would one consider it their anniversary? They hadn't really discussed the mechanics of the thing. There weren't any romantic implications, of course, but it was a milestone nonetheless. They had become friends, flatmates, and a dynamic crime fighting duo in less than forty-eight hours.

Anniversary definitely didn't seem quite descriptive enough for who Sherlock and John were.

All things considered, Sherlock really _shouldn't_ have been surprised. But then, John was... John. And no matter how hard he tried to stay ahead of him, there were times Sherlock was left completely flummoxed by his friend.

It was a frigid afternoon in early January, three weeks before their one year... whatever. To the untrained eye, it would have appeared Sherlock was napping on the couch in the sitting room of 221b. The uninformed assessment would not have been too far from the truth, though the consulting detective would vehemently assert otherwise. He was roused from his _contemplation_ by the lock on the door to the street below being fumbled with.

Sherlock smirked and checked the time. John must have his hands full. It was later than normal for him to be returning from his shift at the clinic, which meant he'd seen to the shopping, and would likely be in a mood because of the crowds. Sherlock honestly considered helping John carry the bags up the stairs to the flat.

He _thought_ about it.

He also thought about the fact that when John was in a strop, physical exertion was often the best cure.

He then considered the fact that carrying overloaded shopping bags up the steps to the flat after a tedious day at the clinic often had the opposite effect. Especially when the freezing temperatures irritated John’s shoulder.

It was truly a conundrum, and one that bore further experimentation.

By the time Sherlock settled on the most discreet method of testing his hypothesis he realized that John's footfalls indicated he was exactly two steps from the top landing, and the whole matter was moot anyway.

Another day, perhaps. He closed his eyes and listened to his flatmate’s approach. John’s typical frustrated stomping was absent, replaced by a quick and purposeful step.

Odd.

John strode into the sitting room, bringing with him the remnants of icy wind and the scintillating aroma of garlic. Sherlock shivered at the sudden onslaught of sensations.

“S’pose a fire would’ve been too much effort.” Neither a question nor an accusation, John’s statement was unexpectedly lighthearted. He chuckled as he dropped a stack of envelopes on the coffee table near Sherlock’s head. “Post for you.”

Compelled by curiosity, Sherlock opened one eye to examine the stack of correspondence.

By the second week of being flatmates it was decided, rather forcefully so, that John would be responsible for seeing to all correspondence sent by post. It was a hard rule, and one that John enforced with a stiff hand. Something about bills, and keeping the lights on. Sherlock had long since deleted the minutiae. It was, therefore, puzzling that John should so easily surrender even one missive to Sherlock without first reading it for himself.

But then, this particular stack of correspondence didn’t seem to meet the standard criteria for bills and solicitations. The haphazard stack was comprised of several brightly colored, thick envelopes. Intrigue got the best of him, and Sherlock pushed himself up to sitting. He picked up the first envelope and inspected it closely.

A ghastly shade of lavender... no, lilac... There was a faint hint of chemicals, both cleaning grade, and... Formaldehyde. The envelope had not been addressed properly, so not actually sent through the post in favor of being hand delivered. His name was scrawled on the front in neat, if a touch too loopy, cursive. A heart was drawn where postage would have normally been affixed. Molly.

Sherlock, with as much put upon frustration as he could muster, groaned loudly. “John, we agreed. No birthdays.”

“Despite your best efforts, it appears people genuinely like you, and that you have far less control over their personal decisions than what you originally thought.” John smirked and shrugged as he placed a plate loaded with a sampling of three different Italian dishes in front of Sherlock. “Angelo called _me,_ in case you’re wondering.” He put his own plate on the coffee table and turned back to the kitchen. “He also sent tiramisu.”

A moment later and John returned with two steaming mugs of tea. “Are you going to read those, or stare at the envelopes?” John chuckled as he nudged the stack of cards nearer Sherlock. “Cold? I’m near frozen through. I’ll get the fire going.”

Brow furrowed, Sherlock turned the purple... lilac... envelope over in his hands. He opened his mouth for a sharp retort, but snapped it shut quickly. With a sigh he tore through the flower sticker Molly had used to seal the flap shut. The front of the card featured a drawing of a kitten holding a cupcake. The inside read _I hope you have a purrr-fect birthday!_ Sherlock snorted with derision, skimmed over the saccharine platitudes Molly had included, and dropped the card to the floor at his feet.

“Sherlock.” John scolded. He picked the card up from the floor, read it over, and rolled his eyes. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, okay. Still, no need to be dismissive.”

“You’re the only one here! Are you going to tattle on me?”

With a shake of his head, John chuckled and tucked into his dinner. “Not likely.” He pointed at the cards with his fork. “Keep going.”

“I’d rather eat my dinner,” Sherlock pouted.

“Really? In that case, the cards can wait. Eat.” John scooted Sherlock’s plate a little nearer. Bluff called, Sherlock huffed and picked up another card.

Green envelope. Chicken scratch writing. Smelled of nicotine and bad coffee. “Lestrade,” Sherlock stated as he tore open the envelope. John’s mouth quirked into a small smile as he took another bite. “Ugh,” Sherlock passed the card to John. It featured a t-rex wearing a party hat. The inscription inside read _Have a dino-mite year!_

“God, that’s terrible,” John laughed.

Sherlock smirked as he picked up the next card. He glanced at John who was waiting with anticipation for Sherlock to deduce the sender. He made a show of inspecting the envelope front and back. The small smudge of red on the edge gave it away. “Angelo.” He ripped open the flap, pulled the card out, and showed it to John. A smiling triangle of cheese waved back at them. “I think probably a pun about being aged to perfection.”

“Or perhaps a pun about it being a cheesy card?” John offered. Sherlock flipped the card open. “Damn. Point Holmes.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock tossed the card onto the stack of opened ones and snatched the next from the unopened pile. Powder blue envelope. Light floral scent. Neat cursive. “Mrs. Hudson.” Without hesitation, Sherlock yanked the card out, revealing a cheerful looking blue bird perched on a wrapped gift. “Happy bird-day,” he stated boldly.

John hummed in contemplation. “No... Mrs. Hudson, yeah? Something tweet. Instead of sweet or treat.” Sherlock snorted and opened the card. A few five pound bills fluttered to the table, and were ignored as both men scanned the inscription. Sherlock frowned and slapped the card down on the table. “Point Watson,” John snickered.

They proceeded through the remaining cards, Sherlock deducing the senders, both he and John making guesses at the awful puns. With one card remaining, the score was tied at four. “Why are you so good at this?” Sherlock shook his head and actually smiled.

“That’s the thing about puns, they defy logic. You’re thinking about this too hard. Like the logical genius you are. I’m just an illogical ordinary bloke. And easily amused.” John shrugged and tried to hide his pleasure at Sherlock’s indirect compliment behind his mug. He grimaced as he sipped the rapidly cooling tea.

“We’ll need to change the rules for this last one I think.” John put the cold tea down and scooted forward in his seat.

Without even a glance at the front of the envelope, Sherlock tore the flap open. “Yours,” he tilted his head toward John as he studied the front of the card intently. The card was yellow with black diagonal stripes. A cartoon bee grinned up at him. “You already know what it says.”

“I do.” John nodded. “You guess correctly, you win. You get it wrong, I win.”

Sherlock hummed his consent and examined the card once more. “This bee is woefully inaccurate...”

“Stop stalling,” John huffed a laugh.

“ _Bee_ happy... No. Wait... Hap- _bee_ birthday.” Sherlock scrunched up his face and tried to read John’s reaction. The doctor maintained an infuriatingly unresponsive expression. “The second one. Hap-bee birthday.” He nearly tore the card in half trying to open it up. John laughed outright at Sherlock’s scowl. “ _Buzzing by to say happy birthday._ Terrible, John.”

“Served me well enough. I actually won!” John grinned.

Collapsing back into the cushions, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s _my_ birthday.”

“And you didn’t even want to celebrate.” John stood to clear away the dinner that had long grown cold. “Did you get a chance to pick up the, uhm, _package_ Molly had for you?”

Sherlock perked up at the mention of the medical cool bag that had been waiting for him in the morgue. He stood and followed John to the kitchen. “How did you manage a heart?”

“Ah... Probably best the less you know, yeah? It was diseased, so it couldn’t be used. That’s all you need to be concerned with.” John cleared his throat and turned to the sink, in order to hide from Sherlock’s prying gaze.

“Right. So...” Sherlock rocked up onto the balls of his feet and fidgeted with the belt of his robe. “I suppose... Uhm... Yes. Thank you.”

“Welcome.” John nodded swiftly and dried his hands. He filled the kettle and leaned back on the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

“Ah, hmm.” Sherlock scratched the back of his neck and looked up at John. “I... It seems I must have deleted your date of birth, John. You’ve lived here nearly a year, and it occurs to me that we must have passed it by.”

With a deep inhalation and a controlled breath out, John visibly steeled himself to address the subject. “It’s in March. The... The uhm thirty-first, actually.”

Sherlock stared at John, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “That date. It’s significant. That...” He gently shook his head as realization struck.

“The pool.” It was impossible, in that moment, to discern who was most shattered by John’s brusque response.

“John...”

“Nope.” John put both hands up to silence his friend. “It’s done. I’d rather not revisit that night, if it’s all the same to you.” Defenses up, John turned his back to Sherlock and set about preparing the tea.

“I... I feel as though any prior apology was inadequate in the light of this... data...” Sherlock winced at his own word choice.

With a white knuckled grip on the edge of the counter, John sighed. “Leave it be, Sherlock. Please. Moriarty tried to break you... Break us. But we both walked away, decidedly not dead.” His shoulders drooped and when he turned back around to hand Sherlock a mug, his expression was one of exhaustion, despite the lopsided smile he forced. “Not dying. Top night’s work, that.”

Sherlock hummed his consent. “Perhaps this year we can arrange something a little less... _harrowing._ A nice, quiet celebration.”

“God, that sounds awful.” John sniffed. Sherlock chuckled. “Tiramisu?”

“Yes, please.”

John handed Sherlock his own mug of tea. “I’ll be right in.” Sherlock nodded and reclaimed his space on the couch. He flipped through the stack of birthday cards once more and lifted John’s from the stack. The corner of his mouth quirked into the tiniest of smiles as he flipped the card open, and read the missive scrawled by John’s own hand.

_Sherlock,_  
_Thank you. For everything._  
_Happy Birthday._  
_John Watson_

Sherlock carefully slid John’s card into the pocket of his robe, and shuffled the other cards into a tidy stack. John entered then with their dessert. “I hope you’re not expecting me to sing.”

“Please, spare us both.” Sherlock pulled a horrified face.

“Git.” John smirked and handed Sherlock a plate.

“Thank _you,_ John.”

 

**31 March, 2011**

“Sherlock?” John, still bleary with sleep, nearly stumbled down the steps to the sitting room. "Sherlock..."

“Oh... John. Happy Birthday.” Sherlock stepped from the kitchen with a mug of tea and plate of scones. “Mrs. Hudson made scones.” He smiled proudly at his flatmate.

“Uhm... Okay.” John blinked in surprise. He rubbed his sleep ruffled hair and held up an envelope. “And this? What... What is this?”

“A card, John. I thought that was fairly obvious.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“Sherlock.” John slid the card from the envelope. “This is the card I gave _you._ ”

“I...” Sherlock bit his lip. “I just thought... _I_ appreciated the card. It represents one of few times you bested me in competition. And, I thought... I thought you would appreciate the correspondence.” Sherlock looked down at his feet, uncertainty etched on his face. “Not good?”

John opened the card and reread the message Sherlock had written under his own.

_John,_  
_It is I who must thank you._  
_Happy Birthday._  
_Your friend,_  
_Sherlock Holmes_

“No, not good, Sherlock. This,” John held the card up. “It’s more than just good. It’s perfect. God.” He shook his head and grinned.

“Oh. Good.” Sherlock nodded slowly, his smile actually making its way to his eyes. “Good. Now sit down. I’ve got your breakfast.”

 

**6 January, 2012**

John stood sullenly as the frigid wind howled around him. He scarcely recognized the version of himself reflected in the highly polished black stone. There was no sense in even trying to convince himself the errant tears stinging his eyes were due to the cold. He coughed once and pulled a worn envelope from his pocket. Nestled inside was the birthday card they’d given to each other. Under Sherlock’s clinical script, John had scrawled a new message.

_Sherlock,_  
_You arse. Stop this. Please._  
_John_

Tucking the card alongside the grave marker, John sniffed and brushed away the remaining tears. Straightening his shoulders, he stood at attention and paused for just a moment longer. “Happy...” He choked on the words, then turned on his heel and marched quickly away.

 

**6 January, 2014**

The case had started sometime before dawn the morning before. John couldn’t be arsed to remember the time. What he did remember was Mary waking him with a shout, only to find Sherlock practically vibrating with excitement standing at the foot of their bed. In their bedroom. At their house.

“Good morning, Mary. John.” Sherlock used his plastered on, manufactured grin. The one that was manic and slightly terrifying. “Mary, I wonder if you would mind terribly loaning me the use of your betrothed for the day. I’ve a case on, and I find I am in dire need of his assistance.”

“In other words, you don’t want to do the dirty work,” John grumbled as he scrubbed his hand over his face and swung his legs out of the bed.

“Do what you want. Just not here.” Mary switched off the bedside lamp and pulled the duvet over her head.

“You could have called, you know.” John hissed as he moved about the dark room and gathered up, to his best estimation, the things he would need to dress for the day. He cursed when he stubbed his toe on the desk.

Sherlock scoffed. “This was quicker.” He didn’t even try to lower his voice.

“Out!” Mary commanded from the depths of her blanket cocoon.

“Sorry... Sorry, love. We’re leaving.” John manhandled Sherlock from the room.

John heard Mary mumble, “Good riddance,” as he gently clicked the door shut with a chuckle.

That had been probably, if he had to guess, twenty hours before. The case was just now put to rest, but both John and Sherlock were too wound up to even think about returning to their respective homes to sleep. John didn’t dare disturb Mary a second night in a row.

That was how John came to find himself seated across a sticky table from Sherlock in an absolute dive of a twenty-four hour cafe. The food was terrible, and the coffee was worse. But it was out of the icy rain that had begun to fall.

Sherlock was pushing a bite of pie around the plate with his fork when John dropped an envelope on the table next to his coffee. “John?”

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock.” John shrugged. "I’m sorry it’s not _the_ card. But...”

Nodding in understanding, Sherlock gingerly lifted the flap of the envelope and pulled the card out. The front of this card was white with yellow polka dots. Two happy cartoon bees smiled brightly up at them. “Uhm... This one has _got_ to be hap-bee birthday.” Sherlock flipped the card open and laughed outright.

“Point Holmes.” John chuckled.

Sherlock smiled warmly as he read what John had written inside the card.

_Sherlock,_  
_There are some days I am still mad as hell at you._  
_But you need to know I meant it when I forgave you._  
_I asked you to stop being dead, and here we are._  
_Happy birthday, you mad arse._  
_Your friend. Always._  
_John_

“I heard you, John.” Sherlock sniffed and looked up sheepishly at his friend. He cleared his throat. “We... You really ought to stop talking to inanimate objects.”

John chuckled. “You’re one to talk. Git.” He shook his head, and attempted a sip of the tar water the diner was passing off as coffee. “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

 

**31 March, 2014**

“Sherlock?” John called as he burst breathlessly into the sitting room of 221b. “Sherlock! You said it was urgent?”

“Just a moment, John!” Sherlock shouted from his room. “Have a seat, I’ll be right out.”

“Every time. I fall for it every time.” John grumbled to himself. It wasn’t for no reason he responded out of fear, of possible death or dismemberment, or worse, when Sherlock said _urgent._ He knew full well Sherlock’s urgent was different than everyone else’s urgent, because Sherlock’s urgent often enough involved murder, or poison, or some other deadly thing. Though just as frequently, Sherlock’s urgent required John’s presence to watch mold grow, or any number of other inane chores.

With a resigned sigh, John dropped into his old armchair. “Sherlock, if you don’t hurry, we’ll be late, and Mary will skin both of us.” She'd planned a party at their home, and invited... everyone. John shuddered at the thought.

“John.” With an air of the serious, Sherlock sat in his own armchair across from John. “I have something for you. I can’t explain to you how I ended up with this thing, but just know it _was_ passed directly to me, and I managed to keep it in my possession the entire time I was away.” Sherlock pulled an envelope from his pocket and gingerly held it out to John. “Please... Please don’t be angry.”

“Oh... My God.” John gasped as he turned the worn and yellowed envelope over in his hands. He pulled the card from the envelope as gently as possible, and huffed out a nervous laugh. “God, Sherlock. You... You ended up with this after I...”

“It arrived one day with a batch of intelligence I had been waiting on. There... There were a few days I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to pass that card back to you again." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and attempted, unsuccessfully, to look unaffected. "I thought it best to give it to you away from the crowd of curious party goers."

John cleared his throat and clenched his left hand into a brief fist. "Ah, right... Right. Fine." He flipped the card open and read through the handwritten messages until he got to Sherlock's recent addition. He glanced up at his friend, exhaled a controlled breath, and turned his eyes back to the card.

_John,_  
_I owe you many things._  
_Not the least of which are_  
_my continued apologies._  
_How could I deny the bravest,_  
_kindest, and wisest man_  
_I've ever known his one request?_  
_I'm here, John._  
_Careful what you wish for._  
_Sherlock_

Pressing a knuckle against his mouth, John couldn’t conceal a surprised grunt. Blinking rapidly, he read over the lines once more. And then a third time. He gingerly closed the card, slid it back into the envelope, and tapped the arm of his chair with it.

"Sherlock, I..." John's voice was thick with emotion. He cleared his throat once again and smiled. " _Idiot._ "

Cocking an eyebrow at John, Sherlock grinned a genuine, unassuming grin. "Happy birthday, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for giving each other the same card over and over actually comes from one of the sweetest, most romantic stories I've ever heard. My maternal grandparents were both born in October. Grandpa's birthday first, grandma's second. One year, about 20 years ago, grandpa forgot to get grandma a card for her birthday, so he just wrote in a note to her in the card she had given him earlier that month. She keeps every card she ever gets. So, when grandpa's next birthday came around, she pulled out that old card, as a joke, and gave it to grandpa again. And for twenty years they gave each other the same birthday card, always writing new messages in it. My grandpa passed away last spring, but my grandma still has twenty years worth of their love story recorded in a cheap dime store birthday card.


	2. Reader Appreciation Prompt Extravaganza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's better to give than receive, yeah?
> 
> And... I may have lost my mind.
> 
> ***THIS CHAPTER IS NOT A FIC/STORY***

This past Friday (15 January) was my birthday.

I'd like to ask you, my readers to celebrate with me. In order to do so, I'd like to make a request...

I'm looking for Sherlock and John prompts. Specifically, prompts from you, the readers who have stuck it out with me, and been so encouraging and supportive.

To this point, the stories I've written are stories I want to read (the whole, if you can't find the story you want, then you write it concept). So, what would YOU, my amazing, lovely, appreciated readers like to read from me?

I do ask that you respect two requests on my part... No smut. And, I'm pretty dedicated to the whole platonic-best-friends-can-still-be-soulmates presentation of the boys.

Beyond those two things, I'm open to try just about anything: A.U.s (even goofy ones), crossovers, ACD style, character spotlights (I've had a ton of requests for sassy, no secrets Mary, as well as university John), whump, angst, humor, case fic... If you can think of it, drop it in the comments, and I will do my best.

Maybe I've just lost my mind in my advancing age, but I'm looking forward to the challenge. I can't wait to see what you all come up with.


End file.
